Those Birthdays In-Between

By Rene G. Parent

Midmorning an insurance agent from Ohio calls. "I know you are busy," she says. "I'll keep it brief." Ten minutes later, she laments she always wanted to write. Reading of ourselves is what writing is about and her story waits and is as valid.
Weave the everyday routine and those days that aren't. Perhaps a spring break road trip to Lake Tahoe or celebrating the first dozen years poolside in Sacramento. Or maybe those birthdays in between which introduce new decades while celebrating amid family in Vermont.
Still it's not what you say, or even write down, rather what others tell themselves as they read alongside. "Write daily of the everyday," I tell her. "Start with the insurance person calling." Writing - a conversation we place ourselves within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jun 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426983610

Rene G. Parent

The author lives in Oregon. A dozen siblings live two time zones away. He is a stay at home dad.

Book preview

Those Birthdays In-Between

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Rene G. Parent

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© Copyright 2011 Rene G. Parent.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4269-7195-2 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4269-8361-0 (ebk)

Trafford rev.06/01/2011

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Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Dedication

Family, friends, and complete strangers help write a book. Thanks to Trafford for allowing more people to publish their ideas, experiences and adventures. Thanks Ivy, Matt, Ryan and Rosie who call checking in on the writing progress and are no longer strangers.

Other times, events tell the story best. Family and neighborhood events which include celebrating those birthdays in between, especially when reaching decade changing milestones or marked with surprise parties. Bob, yours are first.

And a special thanks to my wife and daughters who travel alongside creating those story moments. It’s not so much what you write down, rather what others tell themselves as they read alongside. Still they help edit, suggest front cover design and back cover summary. Writing - a conversation we place ourselves within.

Chapter 1

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We are on the back of the ocean, said Abby. There’s no sand in sight. Her postcard day at the coast includes sand - beachfront sand. Instead we overlooked vegetation, two story homes, and the ocean in the distance.

I found a book in Hawaii and fifteen years later find it once again on our Oregon garage floor. My mother in law’s postcard falls from this book and is story seed for writing one of my own. I would later place Twice Found Postcards on a hotel corridor bookshelf. I take The Best of Families and replace it with the book I just wrote on the lives of family including my mother in law and her Maui crescent moon postcard tucked within.

Books are in various stages of being written, printed, and read. Writing continues before breakfast and the prescribed physical therapy exercises. Sometimes we wait until after volunteering with third grade readers. Other times while waiting for kids to cross the street after a day of school, or waiting for a book club to begin.

Writing progresses at its own pace. Janice who sits close by asks if my book is published. I’m working on it, I tell her. The publishing houses e-mail a similar response. We write of family vacations, twice found postcards and the surprise birthday celebrations in between.

Chapter 2

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Madeline’s sleepover leaves her with one hour of rest, thus she napped for much of yesterday. I walked back from Starbucks, meeting others along the wooded trail. A sunny day previews spring.

We write in early morning to capture the rhythm of day. Wednesdays, I help my daughter’s classmates read in third grade. Reading, a skill which reflects our later life.

We decide the end by what we choose to read. Perhaps America suffers the consequences of Reality Television?

People escape from their everyday reality. It’s unemployment for nearly a tenth of our country. We watch as our lifestyle and contributions dissolve.

We’re all in the same boat, goes the familiar refrain. Today, fewer are in positions to help others as they concentrate on keeping their own boat afloat. Be patient and keep the faith, say the mortgage brokers. Do they relay this message to us, or remind themselves?

Spring is in the air. The birds chirp outside my window. Next week, clocks lose an hour as we spring forward. We in turn hurry our schedule to make up for the lost time. Still the extra light at the end of day is welcomed.

Today my writing waits until the kids are dropped off at school. The dishwasher hums from the kitchen. The washing machine whirls from the laundry, then emptied and ran again. Similar routine in the garage as I recycle a bit of last week and clean off residue from a passing bird.

The week before I went outside to wash the car. A while back we considered installing a sunroom. It sounded great until the salesman mentions the ongoing rinsing of glass panels. Just do it while it’s raining he says. That way you don’t have to rinse.

Thus once the downpour started last week, I thought why not wash some of the winter grime from our car. It worked although I got drenched in the process. Still the car is clean until the next storm.

Tonight is a book club at church. Rather than Bible study as usual, we will discuss a recent bestseller which gets people talking. Yesterday our friend in London called. Three hours later we are still discussing books, the writing process and life. People have choices in what happens to them, she says. I suggest things happen to each of us, life defining events which are out of our control.

I mention I sent my book revisions to the publisher. I mailed them from her hometown zip code. In other words, I went to her parents’ neighborhood post office. Tongue in cheek, I wonder if perhaps it will help launch my book. You did your part, she says. You wrote it - now there’s nothing further one can do to place their book in readers hands.

Thus parts of life are under our control, those life defining moments yet books will do what they will to find their readers. Book clubs often full of debate. Even overseas telephone calls force us to rethink our position. Still I wrote a book and will do what is needed to move it to and from store shelves. While it’s not so much what we say, it’s what readers tell themselves reading our words; words which we hope resonate.

Writing personal stories by its nature taps into universal themes. We relate to those plots yet sometimes they leave us uncomfortable, vulnerable. We read and somewhere along the way decide we could write a similar tale. The trouble is, our story isn’t made up, it happens to us, without our controlling the outcome. Regardless if people tell us otherwise, our experience speaks a different language. We may all be in the same boat, yet we each relate experiences in our own voice, language, and time.

An airplane climbs in the distance. Birds sing with the advance of spring, the decline in financial markets. We had a book club discussion on a recent bestseller. Our Bible study leader enjoys this particular book as do many Americans, thus the bestseller’s list. I ask one of the participants why she thinks it is on readers short list.

It gets people talking, she replies although most don’t know what they are talking about. She has a degree in Religion and enjoys the book on this basis. Accurate except for one detail, she notes.

I listen wondering just what message clicks with people. Many mention forgiveness and this book allows them to forgive. Each has their own take on the recent bestseller. Books have their own take on life. A popular magazine ranks Portland as an unhappy place. Can this be accurate? The United States must indeed be somber.

Still today this is an easy argument to make. Nearly ten percent are out of work, perhaps more as unemployment reflects those actively searching for work. Book clubs spin another story. We discuss the book and invariably share what concurrently happens in our own lives - lives changed in 2009.

We read about it in newspapers, magazines and even books weave the current state of affairs amid their plots. Fewer are boarding airplanes off to vacation. Spring break is in two weeks. We will take a day trip. For upper middle class, a day trip seems restrictive. We contribute to retirement and 401k plans which in the final analysis require further analysis.

Whether Portland ranks as one of the saddest spots in America is debatable. Would guess there are few places smiling as this year progresses, places and people within those places. Those people who write our story yet have difficulty righting this economic one.

Last night I shared a draft of A Sibling Within with Jillian. We are acquaintances as we’ve sat beside each other since last fall on Tuesday night Bible study. Having a dozen siblings, people give us strange looks initially, then realize we had nothing to do with it. I thought Jillian would enjoy this element of my book, told a sibling at a time.

My family of birth, along with my adoptive family in the Tenderloin hotel front lobby. They too become family. I write about eight of them and mention a few more in the book. One, the wild and crazy woman. Another answers her door scantily dressed. Yet another dances through life, although most watching would say the music had stopped long before. Perhaps this is a formula which gets some through their day.

We write what is currently happening or reflect on days past, gleaning lessons left behind. We write of the people met and those who meet us. Writing a book is one way to meet lots of people at once, yet the better books allow us to meet the author as well.

By the time we are done reading their words we better appreciate the book, often a translation of their life. Read ninety nine percent of fiction begins biographical. I tell the story of my life over and over, said one writer. We write what we know from where we are. We hope the reader later enjoys our words, even those found in lobbies which later build story. We hope they enjoy reading about themselves or maybe how times were back then, whether at Bible study or volunteering in third grade classrooms.

Chapter 3

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Writing takes in the everyday and goes from there. We log in what is seen and heard outside or a room away. Sometimes it’s a hotel lobby within San Francisco’s Tenderloin district.

Other times it’s elementary school children rushing through breakfast. Traffic outside, airplanes overhead, laundry whirling. It all get tossed in. Later in the rewrite, we recognize story threads tucked within.

Writing writes itself if only we get out of the way. Often a story ends elsewhere and not necessarily one of our own. We use our words yet sometimes it is a universal theme. Writing personal accounts hits on humanity without our effort. We write about our books and people we share them with. The best ones include ourselves in the mix. They use our voice, log experience, and reflect our setting.

Today it’s back to the telephone store. Our cell phone comes up under a different name on caller ID. My daughter Madeline recently took a call looking for a criminal. Last night someone was busy texting.

I will drive to Gresham and sort this out. May leave with yet a new telephone number. Numbers in our lives, they accumulate along with the recharging cables, accessories to modern life.

Birds sing this morning, yet some panic maybe they returned too early as it’s near freezing again this week. We have a birthday party to attend an hour up the interstate. The cousins home is high atop a hill. Another nine year old celebrating his birthday. One of my older brothers also celebrates on March seventh.

Last night I read through A Sibling Within. Fun, imagining my friend Jillian reading the same sections. What does she think as she reads through? My book introduces chapters a sibling at a time. I bring in two at a time for six chapters.

Jillian perhaps enjoys this part of the book and meeting folks who people the Tenderloin. I include character sketches of eight, and maybe one hits home with her. They are people who people her world and ours.

Still later I introduce my sister and how those defining events color each day going forward. It’s a book about me and my every day experience, even those experiences taken from twenty and thirty five years ago. Realistically, the best books contain a bit of our story within the narrative. Rather than unique or special, they take us in and carry us further.

A story pulls us along if it resonates. Still the bookstores ask, What makes your book unique or special? Suppose taking it further, major bookstores insist they carry books which are unique and special.

It may be their hope yet there are only so many storylines. Many lives parallel in the final analysis. It’s how we frame stories which separate them. Where we tell the story from, and perhaps not so much what we say.

Still what readers tell themselves matters. We start with words, our story, where they take it is up to them. Thus they have a say in how stories progress. Ideally they follow along through the final chapter. If not, maybe it was the book’s intent to take them elsewhere. Fiction does it best, taking a circuitous route, sometimes beginning with the story incoming on cell phones.

We have a new telephone number this morning. We were receiving text messages, and cell phone calls looking for criminals. The Caller ID was wrong. Today we have a new telephone number. Change has been promised, even telephone numbers change.

We are midway through the third month of the year and conditions continue to deteriorate. It’s not the message, change envisioned for ourselves or our once prosperous country.

We drive an hour north for a birthday party. Hunter turns nine less than a month from our daughter Abigail. 2000 was a busy year. Now nine years later we watch them grow. He looks older than me, she remarked last night during dinner.

She looks forward to the school carnival next weekend. Before the school fundraiser, we will meet friends at a local restaurant. Another birthday, a belated birthday party for a mid seventy year old. He will be surprised as we are meeting under the guise of celebrating my wife’s birthday.

Lots of birthdays this time of year. There are five birthdays in March in my family of birth. Suppose it meant a birthday cake a week, or maybe they combined celebrations back then. Mine is in September, while the rest of the family birthdays are over by July. I had a season of my own. Still few look forward to turning a year older, in spite of the cake, balloons and celebration.

The furnace shut off. There is no snow on the ground, although forecasted this weekend. Sun breaks hint of spring. After a record snow, many look forward to spring. More light, warmer weather to spend time outside. We turn the clocks forward an hour tomorrow, a welcomed change. While our day doesn’t really change, adjusting clocks let us enjoy an extra hour of daylight.

My brother’s father in law has a surprise eightieth party this weekend. I wrote a note, holding it until after the birthday party. I received an invitation mailed from an unknown Vermont address. I wondered what might be in this mailing. Fortunately it was a surprise birthday party invitation and nothing more.

We write in early morning of the airplane flying overhead, crinkling writing paper, the shadow of our writing hand. Sometimes we take note, other times too far within thoughts to notice what happens beyond our writing desk.

Today a birthday party calls. Distraction is good as we further this economic uncertainty. We tread new ground, warn commentators. Everyone’s on their own. It defies explanation, they continue. Still government has penalized the productive in the group.

Driving to the birthday party yesterday, Abby notes there is no snow on the ground as we climb ridges off Interstate 5. Wait, I tell her. Mid afternoon we have a snow flurry.

Snowflakes the size of thumbnails. Luckily the weather is warm otherwise those size snowflakes would accumulate quickly. Our cousins received five and a half feet during the December storm. They, too, tire of snow.

This morning we have another dusting. Most are ready for spring. Madeline practices her violin. She recently bought a music book; no words nor notes, rather it lets her write her own music. She has the first sentence written and has notes to music down three rows in her otherwise blank music book. Write what you hear, I tell her. Start where she is and go from there.

Don’t stop until she finishes. True for writing words, notes - music. Write what we hear, not so much what is said. Although some say we talk from the page, I think it’s more someone overhearing thoughts; our thoughts logged in. Thoughts written down so others can read our words and thoughts behind those words. Sometimes editing, we’ve forgotten what we wrote, and maybe had help writing those words.

We write daily, although some days this is late morning, after church and eating brunch. Today we turn clocks ahead an hour. Madeline and I turned eleven of them ahead last night. Today Abby has a fever and sleeps in. At 11:50 am she eats breakfast.

Many linger, sleep late this morning. Perhaps running on a similar schedule, yet clocks tell them they run late. Yesterday we walked a local hotel corridor with glassed in bridge overlooking their pool. One side had a cascading water feature. I hadn’t noticed it before. I saw it and assumed you had too, says Madeline. Otherwise I would have told you, she continues.

We celebrate birthdays for nine year olds. They enjoy their day as they open Lego’s. We enjoy the view from their home atop a ridge. Windows frame nature, without subdivisions visible. Snow falls heavily at times amid a surprise snowfall early March. Later we discuss current state of affairs. My wife is asked what I do. She starts with I’m a stay at home dad, an accountant. Later she mentions I’ve been writing.

This opens conversation. I mention many pencil in stories of their own, furious with the current state of affairs. It’s a bonanza for publishers. We leave the birthday party with more readers looking forward to reading our words. It’s my hope they get beyond my details and reflect on their own. First we place ourselves at birthday parties and take readers alongside from there.

Chapter 4

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It snows this morning. It snowed yesterday. Just now my pen runs out of ink. Can I write it any clearer? Snow and dry ink sum up early spring.

Neighbors were over last night. They visited and dropped off a card for my wife Melissa who turns forty five on Friday the thirteenth. They visit while Abby takes her temperature. She has a flu bug and fever. Madeline and I were at church school. Madeline learns how to make pretzels, those praying bits of dough, better warm with salt. I listen to a group prepare for RCIA, a program which invites people into the Catholic church.

We studied the Nicene Creed. It took several councils to write and written well enough to survive through the years. It’s a recap of what we believe, our creed. We believe in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Still I know this yet hold Father above the other two. The creed says they are a trinity; three in one God.

We met in the Religious Education director’s trailer as it is warmer. A smaller room to heat instead of the normal elementary school classroom. The chairs are more comfortable as well.

Abby sleeps in as snow falls this morning. I will read more in my book A Sibling Within. There is a series of steps to writing. Write daily placing words to the